Classic Poem

She was wearing the coral taffeta trousers
Someone had brought her from Isfahan,
And the little gold coat with the pomegranate blossoms,
And the coral-hafted feather fan;
And she ran down a Kentish lane in the moonlight,
And skipped in the pool of the moon as she ran.

She cared not a rap for all the big planets,
For Betelgeuse or Aldebaran,
And all the big planets cared nothing for her,
That small impertinent charlatan,
As she climbed on a Kentish stile in the moonlight,
And laughed at the sky through the sticks of her fan.